


Points of Depature

by TigerDragon



Series: The Girls In Question [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Blood, Canon Compliant, Disturbing Themes, Dreams, F/F, Hospitals, Nightmares, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerDragon/pseuds/TigerDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Into every generation she is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their number. She is the Slayer." Simple formula, simple idea. One girl, lots of evil, occasional prophetic dreams.</p><p>Nobody ever planned on two of them, much less that they'd be at each other's throats. Or that those dreams might just get a little more complicated with two dreamers. Faith Lehane may be coma-bound, but that doesn't mean she and Buffy Summers are finished with each other. Far from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Points of Depature

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, all. The usual legal disclaimers: we don't own BtVS, nothing here is a claim on existing copyright, etc, etc. No surprises there, right? Good to hear it. Now, on to the fun stuff. 
> 
> The device of Slayer dreams has always been pretty fascinating, and as soon as we realized we had a big gap in our story between "Graduation Day" and our own "Visiting Hours," we knew we had the perfect place to let the idea run a little wild. This collection of vignettes runs from near the start of Season 4 to the middle of Season 5, and it takes in a lot of territory - think of it as a companion piece to "147 Days," with which it shares several major themes. We very much hope you enjoy the ride, and stick with us going forward. Next stop, the end of Season 7!
> 
> For our more canon-minded readers, here's the detailed breakdown: the first dream comes right before "Hush" (preceding Buffy and Riley's first time in bed by a good two months, but a girl can dream, can't she?), the second is a few days after "New Moon Rising," the third follows "Restless" (including some fairly direct references to the dreams in that episode), the fourth comes between the first and second episodes of Season 5, and the fifth occurs in the middle of the episode "Shadow" (Season 5, Episode 8). It also, for anyone tracking our internal chronology, ends about a month before our own "Visiting Hours."

 

_I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams._ \- _Hamlet_ , Act 2, Scene 2

Buffy Summers crept into her dorm room, fatigued muscles threatening to dump her on the floor and make a joke of Slayer stealth every few steps. Night-adapted eyes half-focused with fatigue caught  the neat shadow of Willow’s well-made bed, and a long breath of relief spilled from her lugs as she let herself relax into a shamble and bump into things. Her roommate’s late-night “spellcasting” sessions were getting more frequent and less plausible, and Buffy had every intention of investigating further into the matter - plus possibly threatening the boy or boys involved if she got the chance - but at that moment she was grateful not to have to think about anything besides getting herself tucked in. Some patrols were more demanding than others.

Finally, after a quick change and a cursory teeth-brushing, she flopped into bed and let her eyes close. Actual hygiene could wait.

Her breathing deepened, and soon she wasn’t thinking at all.

In the manner of most dreams, it started without explanation: big, warm hands were sliding slowly down her back, kneading delicious circles into her knotted muscles. She hummed in approval.

“Glad you like it,” Riley said in his usual boyscout earnestness. “You’re always so tense when you come back from work.”

Rolling her shoulders, Buffy smiled with closed eyes.  “Less talky, more massage,” she instructed.

A warm chuckle answered her. “Yes, ma’am.”

Soon he’d worked the tension out of her completely. His hands moved more slowly now, lingering, caressing. A coiling heat began to build under Buffy’s skin.

“Mm. If you’re going to touch a girl like that, you’d better be able to back it up.” Sitting up, she eyed her boyfriend appreciatively, one of her own hands traveling from the small of Riley’s back up his spine. Her fingers tangled into his hair, and she pulled him down into a smouldering kiss.

Now they were both naked, her soldier under her, eyes wide and adoring. The Slayer bent down to kiss his chest before sucking a line of bruises up to his jawline.

Riley’s head arched back, baring his throat, and she closed her eyes to feel him.

When she opened them again, his lips were stained red and his eyes were wide. Dark hair spilled over his back like a stain, and glowing coal eyes flared over his shoulder. There were two hands on him that weren’t hers, and he didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he did and he liked it. Men were like that.

Her shadow’s voice was smoke and fire, and she could see the burns on his skin where she touched him. “Hey, killer. Told you to take what you needed - guess you didn’t need much. Not from me.”  The laugh that danced over Riley’s skin cut like the edge of a knife. “Buffy Summers, Queen of the Dead, got someone new to fill her bed.” Sing-song, nursery rhyme, magic spell - all the same thing. Riley whimpered and sharp nails cut him.

Buffy shook her head. “It’s over,” she told the shadow firmly, hands sliding sensuously through the blood on Riley’s chest as he shuddered. His smooth, well-muscled abs looked good painted red. She placed a kiss just under his ribs. Riley tasted like cherry syrup.

Licking her lips, she slid up, letting her soldier fall into her. Her arms, red to the elbows, wrapped around the shadow girl and pulled them both tight around him. “It’s over,” she murmured again. Buffy sank sticky fingers into her raven hair, dug nails into her burning skin, pressed lips against her sharp mouth. The kiss cut, and she could taste her own blood mixing with Riley’s. “We don’t do this anymore.”

“Sky goes on forever, killer. It doesn’t go away just ‘cause you close your eyes.” Her shadow laughed into her lips, licking fresh wounds into Buffy’s mouth, smearing Riley between them in sticky red ruin. “You need me.”

“You left.” The Slayer’s voice was breathy. Her pulse raced. Their bodies pushed and pulled at each other, skin to bloody skin, not even air between them now. “You made your choice. I make my own decisions now, Faith.”

“You always made your own decisions -  now they’re just my decisions, too.” Her shadow laughed in her ear, fingers wrapping around the Slayer’s, and guided them down to the still-bleeding wound in her belly where the knife had gone in so very easily. “You killed me, but I’m still here. I’ll always be here.” There was blood everywhere, blood and fire, and they were both burning. That razor-blade smile gleamed metal and red. “You’re me, I’m you - we’ve always known what to do. You think nobody else is gonna see? It’s all over our skin, B.”

Horror creeping over her, Buffy slowly looked down. Her whole body was covered with writing, words spelled with drying blood: “Killer,” “Slayer,” “Bringer of Death,” “Murderer,” “Freak,” “Alone,” _“Alone,” **“Alone.”**_

“No,” she choked out, scratching at the words with her nails. “No, I have to go, I have to help my friends.” Something caught the corner of her eye, and when she looked up, there was Riley, too pale and staring at her in disgust, and everyone else behind him, Willow, Xander, Giles, Angel, all of them dead.

She turned back to her shadow, a scream building in her throat. “Get away from me!”

Pale as death, bleeding and burning, Faith curled across the bed she was staining crimson and black and looked up at Buffy with eyes that were dark enough to drown in, as dark as her voice was little girl lost. “I can be your girl, killer, if you just let me. Don’t you love me anymore?”

“I...” Buffy stood frozen. The bed burst into flame. She knew she should call for help, or get some water, or pull Faith out to safety, but she couldn’t move. The fire consumed the comforter and stained the canted ceiling black with smoke. Faith’s skin turned shiny red, then black, and still she stared at Buffy with those bottomless eyes.

“I’m sorry, firecracker,” she said. Nobody listened; all that was left was a pile of ashes where her bed used to be.

She came awake gasping, tears hot on her cheeks, and it was twenty long minutes in the dark of her dorm room before she could convince her legs to carry her to the bathroom and see there was no writing on her skin - bloody or otherwise.

She took a shower anyway.

_____

 

Lasagna was hard. Buffy had tried cutting it down to fit the pan, but it was too rich and grew back. She was going to need a bigger knife, she decided. Maybe she’d use the special set.

“B, you know where we put the extension cord?”

Faith’s voice floated in from the front room, mixing with the sweet bread smell of cooking cupcakes, and Buffy threw her hands up in an exaggerated sigh. The lasagna tried to make a break for it, and she stabbed it to keep it still. “Under the cabinet at the end of the hall upstairs, like it always is!”

There was a moment of chastened silence, and then Faith stuck her head in the kitchen door and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, no memory. Brain’s all full, I guess. Damn, B, you look good in that apron. Sure we don’t have time for a stop upstairs?”

Buffy glared again. Cute sundress or not, Faith was always trouble. “Our families are coming, and _someone_ has to do the cooking while you decorate like you were supposed to.”

“I’m sorry.” Instant chastened Faith. Chastened and annoyingly sexy Faith. She stabbed the lasagna again, just to take her mind off it. Faith grinned. “I just got all busy with the running errands and killing and stuff. I didn’t mean to forget. Still want the star on top?”

“Definitely star,” Buffy confirmed with a maximum speed nodfest. “Angel on top is bad for the guests.”

“Star on the tree, stars on the walls. Nothing but the best for my girl.” Faith pranced over and kissed her, hot on the mouth, then winked. “I got you a present to unwrap early. You know, before Daddy gets here.”

Despite her annoyance with the food and her partner’s falling behind on chores, a happy little smile stole onto Buffy’s face like it always did when Faith was sweet.

“Yeah?” She slid the knife-free arm around the taller girl’s waist. “What is it?”

“You gotta come see, B.” Faith kissed her on the cheek and grinned. “Don’t worry, Mom and Dad are in the corner. No disapproving looks.”

Rolling her eyes to cover her eagerness, Buffy stabbed a knife into each corner of the shifty-looking lasagna, wiped her hands on her apron, and left the kitchen.

Her mother and Giles were, in fact, sitting in chairs facing the living room corner, getting an excellent view of the wallpaper and not much else.  Buffy tested the ropes tying them to their chairs. “Comfy, Mom?”

“I’m fine, sweetie. Thanks for asking. Dinner smells great, by the way. I’m so proud of you.”

The Slayer beamed, then turned to Giles. “All good?”

The Watcher used his one free hand to turn a page of the book he was reading. “I do wish you’d let me read and hold my tea at the same time,” he said, dignity ruffled. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

Patting his shoulder, Buffy shook her head. “Sorry, Giles. You’re on probation for what happened last time. No spells against my in-laws, am I clear?”

The Englishman sighed. “Yes, fine, all right. I’ll just wait patiently then, shall I?”

“Good Watcher,” Buffy smiled.

She turned around.

The tree was perfect - lights and tinsel and all the right ornaments - and the wreath along the fireplace went just right with the twinkly lights along the ceiling and walls. You could never, ever have too many Christmas lights. The best part, though, was her present under the tree. Faith had even wrapped it with a red silk bow, her personal favorite. She bounced over, crouched down and tugged on the edge of the bow; the present squirmed and whimpered.

“A Willow!” the Slayer chirped, running her hands over pale curves. “Just what I always wanted.” Smiling, she pulled a smirking Faith down for a slow kiss, one hand lingering on her gift. “Thanks, baby. She’s perfect.”

“She comes as part of a set, too. I haven’t found the other two parts yet, but I’m thinking birthday present.” Faith lingered on the kiss, purring happily. “I figure you can even take them to college with you for, you know, dorm room fun.”

“Ooh, naughty.” Her hands were exploring now, teasing little squeaks and whimpers out of the bound girl. “I’m supposed to be focusing on my studies, you know. Besides, don’t you want to come with?”

Faith laughed. “Nah, I gotta stay home and manage Daddy’s minions. You know how it is - work, work, work. Nations to conquer, people to bring together, germs to exterminate.”

The doorbell rang. Faith bounced up to her feet, eyes lighting up. “I’ll take her upstairs and check on the cupcakes. Go let Daddy in? You know he always worries you don’t like him.”

“He’s such a worry wart,” the Slayer smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be a great Christmas.”

With a last touch of hands, Buffy stood and left the living room. She put her apron up and washed her hands before smoothing her burgundy taffeta dress and opening the front door.

“Merry Christmas!” Her greeting floated up to her overlord-in-law’s ears. And up. And up.

“Ho ho ho!” the Mayor boomed. A gigantic Santa hat sat on his huge, snakey head and a sack of presents hung from a surprisingly stylish fur collar. He bent down until his head-sized eyes were almost level with hers, then smiled. At least, his mouth-parts moved and he sounded cheerful, so it probably counted as a smile. “Merry Christmas. My girls not getting into too much trouble?”

“No sir,” Buffy smiled. “Well, unless the lasagna escaped again. The recipe is much friskier than I remember.”

“I love lasagna,” he rumbled, “especially live. May I come in?”

The world shook for a moment. Buffy blinked up at Willow. Her roommate had one foot on her mattress and a plate of re-heated Italian take-out in her hands.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” As the witch took another bite, chewed slowly, and swallowed, Buffy stared. Because she was confused, and in no way fascinated by her roommate’s lips.

Willow drew herself up, all wounded dignity. “So I’m having lasagna for breakfast. I can be deviant when I want. You’re not the boss of me.”  

Buffy’s eyes went even wider. She was starting to feel heat in her cheeks. “Uh. I had a weird dream.” Sitting up, she rubbed her closed eyes.  “Reality check: we blew the Mayor into snake-kibble, right?”

The redhead raised an eyebrow. “Snakey kibbles and bits, yeah,” she confirmed. “No more evil kidnapping germophobe.” There was a chewful pause. “How did a Mayor-involving dream involve that much smiling and not so much with the sleep-running and screaming, anyway?”

Buffy looked away. Tomato was not a great skin tone for her.

“I, uh, yeah, weird.” She swallowed. “Can we not talk about this?”

Willow’s look over her breakfast was all too perceptive. “I really don’t want to know, do I?”

Face in her hands, Buffy stared laughing. It got pretty manic pretty fast, enough that Willow probably missed the desperate. Probably. She hoped. “No, Will. You really don’t.”

\-------------

“It’s just a bed,” Buffy reassured herself firmly. “Pillows and blankets and a mattress and stuff. Just. A. Bed. You sleep in it, remember?”

The white, fluffy invitation of her comforter mocked her.

Glaring, the Slayer girded herself into her fuzziest pajamas, braided her hair to keep it out of her face, and stood facing her potential betrayer.

The bed sat there, innocently. However, sleep did not have a good track record with her now, and she was going to do whatever she could to put it on probation.

Five minutes later, Buffy finally lowered herself to the sheets, having inspected the bed from all angles. She’d looked behind and underneath it, shook out all the comforter, given the pillows a thorough pat-down, even checked to see if anything sinister had gotten between the mattress and box-spring.

Everything had checked out, which she had honestly expected. It hadn’t been any _physical_ thingthat had let the First Slayer invade everyone’s dreams, after all. She knew it was irrational, damn it, but Willow and Giles had already cast their protection spells and she was apparently incapable of doing nothing.

Yawning, the Slayer wiggled under the covers. Wary as she was, exhaustion overtook her. “I can totally take you,” she murmured as she drifted off. “And stay out.”

The desert was waiting.

“Dammit.” She kicked at the sand petulantly. Under stark moonlight everything was transformed but still alien, now the moon instead of Mars. A cold breeze blew through the darkness, ruffling her dress and stealing her warmth away. Goosebumps all over her bare arms and legs, Buffy hugged herself and started walking.

That prickling sense of being followed started at the back of her neck before she’d gotten to the first small rise. Refusing to show her unease or betray her knowledge, she took a few more steps to gain the high ground before spinning around to face her stalker.

“Hello, B.” Draped in flowing black silk, her moon-soaked hair loose and flowing in the night wind, Faith looked like something out of a dream or a nightmare - all pale ivory and darkness, she should have seemed ethereal. She didn’t. She looked more real than real, like she might walk through stone and steel like mist without noticing they were there. “It’s a good night, isn’t it?”

“Faith.” The other Slayer’s name burned her mouth. “Be careful. We’re not alone out here.”

“We don’t have anything to be afraid of, B.” Faith smiled, serene and terrible, and reached out for Buffy’s hand. “It’s the night that has to be afraid of us.”

When their hands touched, the heat of Faith’s skin burned the cold away from Buffy. As the heat passed through her body, her vision focused into a sharp clarity. Now when she looked into the desert shadows, she saw not an alien, inhospitable landscape, but the streets of Sunnydale. “Yes, you’re right,” she told the other Slayer, smoothing her red silk robes. “It seems silly that I was worried before.” Hand in hand, they walked through town, stars and street lamps aligning around them.

“You always worry too much,” Faith reproved her gently, stopping under a lamp to kiss her. The gold light spilled across the pale skin of Faith’s cheeks, vanished into the hungry dark of the dried clay that painted her face, and the fire danced hot between their mouths as the lamp flared bright and burst and died. When Faith drew away, Buffy could feel the other Slayer’s warpaint echoed on her own face. It felt cold and hot there, all at once. Like it belonged.  

They stood looking into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and then, like they had been waiting for it--they had been waiting for it--they broke apart, throwing punches and kicks at their attackers. Stakes and blades out, they moved in perfect complement to each other, faster, stronger, more deadly, and in less danger than either would have been alone.  
  
It was a good night.

There was dust and blood on their hands in the end, enough of it to stain the hems of their robes. When Buffy turned away from her last kill, her blood-cry exultant and fierce in the night, she saw Faith take the throat of the last of them and knew it was not clay on their cheeks. Not only clay. Faith turned to her lover, arms open, and the blood on her cheeks was ebony in the moonlight.

Buffy went to her, singing with something older than the streets, and they consumed each other under the dark of the trees until they were both sated. It was another kind of death, and sweeter.

Eventually, sun kissing the sand and rooftops on the horizon, Faith rose from their bed of brush and sand. “I have to go home,” she said, though there were tears in her eyes that splashed delicate circles of barren sand where they landed.

Buffy postponed her leaving with a hand on her arm. “I miss you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to Faith’s forehead, flakes of clay and blood under her lips.

“Of course I miss you. How can I not miss my other self?” Faith stepped back, and Buffy went with her. Another step, still together. There was stone around them now - over their heads, under their feet, only the faintest light leaking through from behind them. Faith weakened a moment, kissed her fiercely, then pushed her away with a gentle ruthlessness. The wall of the cave caught her. “You have to go, Buffy. You don’t belong here.”

She couldn’t move, only cling to the rough stone, silk ruined as she slid down to her knees. “Come back,” _I love you,_ she pleaded silently, unable to say it. Her hand strained towards Faith’s shadow. “Promise you’ll come back.”

“You don’t belong here. You don’t deserve it.” Bones creaked and shifted under Faith’s weight, the Slayer curling herself into the ivory nest of them, and she looked up at Buffy with old, dark eyes. “The Slayer doesn’t walk in this world, B. Somebody’s got to sleep here.”

Buffy shook her head, tears clearing tracks through her war paint. “I won’t leave you here, Faith. I’ll plant more trees. I’ll get you out.”

The darkness deepened, the nest of bones sinking down into the earth. Buffy clutched the rim of the well, knuckles white, watching helplessly as the other Slayer moved farther and farther away. Just before she was swallowed entirely by darkness, Faith pressed her fingertips to her mouth and blew her lover a kiss.

Buffy desperately clawed her way back to wakefulness and found herself laying sideways across the bed on her stomach, sheets wet with tears and sweat. Dragging herself off the mattress, she slumped on the floor with her back against the foot of the bed; she hugged her pillow like a drowning woman would grip a life preserver, and her red-rimmed eyes stared at nothing for what felt like something just a little short of forever.

“Guess you weren’t finished.” It was a broken whisper. “Why do I have to miss you?”

A moment later, Buffy let herself dissolve into tears.

\-------------

“There, honey,” Joyce said, tugging lightly at the white lace she’d just pinned to Buffy’s flawless updo. “You make such a beautiful bride.”

Objectively speaking, she did look wonderful, Buffy admitted. Still, there was something wrong. She inspected her reflection critically, trying to find the flaw. It wasn’t in her off-the-shoulder satin white gown. It wasn’t her hair, her veil or her makeup. She was wearing the right shoes. What was it?

Oh, well. It would come to her eventually. She had a wedding to attend, after all.

“Thanks, Mom. Guess we gotta go if we want to get to the not-church on time, huh?” She smiled, and tried not to watch it in the mirror. Well, that would be fixed tonight. No more fretting over herself in reflective surfaces ever again.

The limo ride to the mansion was awesome. She, Willow and Xander joked and laughed, drank soda from the mini-bar, and cooed over how wonderful they all looked. Buffy was glad that her hours of picking just the right color combination had paid off. Putting her maid of honor in a burgundy dress with black lace decorations looked great with Willow’s coloring, and Xander was surprisingly dapper in his claret-accented tux.

Tonight was going to be perfect.

They and Joyce filed in ahead of her, leaving her in the waiting room. One more furtive glance in the mirror failed to provide any more illumination of the missing whatever. No time for that now, the music was starting. She snatched up her bouquet of crimson roses, straightened her shoulders and then started down the aisle.

Her groom was waiting, immaculate and European and dashing, and he bowed slightly to her as she reached the platform below the horned, crimson-robed priest. The man she had agreed to - was _meant_ to - marry offered her a smile that showed his fangs, like a silent promise. _Beautiful creature_ _,_ his eyes whispered, _I cannot wait to perfect you._

Her own bright smile answered his. Soon, all the worry and pain would be over.

“Dearly beloved,” the demon began in a stuffy British voice, “we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Buffy Anne Summers and Dracula in unholy matrimony...”

The church was so silent that Buffy could hear the beat of her own heart. Annoying. Oh, well. That would be fixed soon, too.

“If any of you have reason why these two should not be wed, speak now or...”

The door of the church exploded. Like, blew inward in pieces the way it would if something really big kicked it. Some vampiric ushers dove for cover from the splinters. Buffy thought she saw a black bike squeal to a stop in the antechamber. Her groom hissed.

Yeah, definitely a black bike. The rider jumped down, peeled her helmet off, then tossed the brown waves of her hair out of her face and unzipped her jacket. Everybody stared, and she tossed off a few casual waves as she sauntered up the aisle like she was crashing the red carpet at the Oscars or something.

Faith Lehane stopped dead center, right in front of the platform, and threw her most insufferable grin at the priest. “Start over.”

He bared his teeth, took one look at her eyes and thought better of it. “Dearly beloved...”

“No, not that part.” Faith heaved an exasperated sigh, tapping her heel. “The other part.”

The priest stared a minute more, then cleared his throat with a harrumph. “If any of you have reason why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your...”

“Me. Oh, me. Definitely me.” Faith bounced on her heels and waved her hand like an impatient student in class.

“Honestly, will I never get to finish a sentence?” Throwing down his tome, the priest stalked to the front row and sat down with an emphatic thump. “Children these days.”

“Faith,” Buffy frowned. “I’m kind of busy here.” The thing she was missing felt close enough to touch. If she could only think in the correct direction, get the steps right, she’d have it.

Faith laughed, put her hand on her hip and showed no signs of moving. “Right. Getting married - and where’s my invitation, by the way? - to Dracula. What could possibly go wrong with that?”

Shifting from foot to fabulously-shod foot, Buffy crossed her arms. “I have to, Faith. It’s the only way.” She shrugged. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to be Queen of the Night?”

“Buffy Summers,” Faith replied quietly, and put one booted foot up on the platform. Dracula hissed again, leaning forward, and Faith didn’t even look at him. “Try it, chuckles, and the ushers are gonna need a dustpan.”

Faith’s proximity made something in the air draw tight and snap. Buffy reeled back, a hand to her temple, blinking furiously. When she could stand up again she took a step back, looking at Faith, her groom, the guests.

Now she could see what was wrong. Except for herself, Faith, and demon-Giles, everyone in the room was sporting fangs and a supernatural frowny face. Her friends, her mother, Dawn, everyone. God. How had she not seen it?

It had been a spell, or vampire mojo or something. She smiled at Faith. “Oh, hey, my free will. I knew I was forgetting something.”

Throwing her bouquet to the floor and stepping out of her heels, she picked up a chunk of door that had flown all the way to the altar. Her husband-to-be took a step back when she rounded on him. “You.” The word sizzled in the air like acid.

His eyes flicked from her to Faith, then to the audience, then back to her. He tried a particularly charming smile. “There is no point in this, Buffy. Surely you must see that if you will not come to me willingly, I can easily take you. There are only two of you, after all, and we are many.”

“Two,” Faith snapped back, stepping in and putting her shoulder practically against Buffy’s, “is more than enough.”

They fought back-to back, white satin to black leather, fast and brutally efficient. Buffy saw an opening and dove to knock Dracula to the ground, knowing Faith would cover her.

The ancient vampire caught her wrists when the stake was mere inches from his husk of a heart. “It was so easy to bespell you.” His voice was silk, and the Slayer’s eyes fluttered. Buffy pushed with all her strength, but the stake inched further away from its target. “You wanted it, and part of you will always want it. If you end me tonight there will come a time when you’ll regret it, when you’ll wish for night’s embrace.”

Buffy’s arms didn’t seem to be obeying her commands any more. They grew more and more soft, the stake slipping from her grasp. She couldn’t even resist when Dracula pulled her neck down with cold, white fingers and gently pulled her veil aside.

“Excuse me,” a distant voice said as warm, hard fingers wrapped around her shoulder, “but nobody said you could kiss the bride.” Then she was up on her feet, unsteady and swaying but keeping her balance on raw instinct, and Faith was astride her would-be husband. He didn’t, as she knew Faith would point out later with a snicker, last long.

The rest of them took one look at the pile of ex-ancient, ex-powerful dust and ran like hell.

Buffy was still regaining her oomph when Faith stood, brushed off the dust and splinters of the fight, and carried the blond to the motorcycle. Luckily for the girls and the bike, it seemed to have an immunity to the younger Slayer’s aggressively reckless driving and its flawless paint job gleamed in the pre-dawn light.

Faith hoisted her on, dress and all, then braced one hand on the dash and the other on the back of the bike. Leaned in. Grinned. “Speaking of kissing the bride...”

Then she did, and the sun rose.

_________________

The chairs in the waiting room were horrible liars, Buffy thought. Sure, they looked comfy enough, but sit on one for longer than fifteen minutes and they became not unlike torture devices. She shifted again with no real hope of getting comfortable. It was just something to do.

“How do they manage to get the most depressing and or useless magazines all in one place?” Xander tossed a year-old issue of  _US Weekly_ onto the little table in disgust. “Seriously. Are they trying to drum up business for their suicide ward or what?”

As Anya countered Xander’s contempt with her own bizarre appreciation of gossip rags, Buffy sank lower in her seat. Since hearing that her mother had something-glioma, everything seemed painfully unimportant. She was just passing the time until she could take her mom home.

Or kill things. That was also cathartic.

“Cuts hurt like a bitch, you know that? Well, probably you do know that. Still, shit.” Sitting on the back of the chair next to Buffy, Faith cupped her right hand carefully around her left and offered Buffy one of her particularly devil-may-care smiles. Maybe she had them made special in a store or something, because nobody else ever seemed to quite get the trick. The younger Slayer looked down, looked up, then made a face. “Hospitals. God, I hate hospitals, especially this one. Guess if I’ve gotta bleed on somebody’s chair, might as well be theirs.”

Sitting up straighter in her chair, Buffy leaned over and winced. “Ouch. Looks bad.”

“Nah, just a scratch.” Faith offered her hand for inspection, smile turning rueful by slow degrees. “Somebody with a thing to prove, and like an idiot I grabbed for the wrist and got a handful of knife instead. Nothing that won’t heal, B.”

The cut ran diagonally up the younger Slayer’s palm and across two fingers, long but not deep. Bright drops of blood welled in her cupped hand, seeped between her fingers, and intermittently dripped to the floor. Buffy hated watching it.

Darting a glance at her distracted friends, the blond stood, tugging at her partner’s shoulder. “C’mere. I can’t stand being useless.”

She led Faith down an antiseptic hallway, quickly checking each door they passed.

“Not much good at sitting idle, either. Guess it’s a Slayer thing.” Faith followed her in through one of the doors, bounced up onto the exam table with her unwounded hand and cracked a half-serious leer. “We gonna play doctor?”

Emotionally wrung-out as she was, an amused smile found its way to Buffy’s face. “Your mind must have a long-term lease on that spot in the gutter.” She turned, rummaged in a drawer, turned back with gauze, bandages, and a bottle of iodine. “Not allergic, are you?”

“Nope. Drugs, plastic, alcohol - I’m good for anything.” Faith offered her hand and batted her lashes, playing up the gutter thing to the hilt. “Anything at all, Doctor Summers.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. The iodine was weird as always, somehow yellow, purple and black at once, staining both their hands. “Huh. Should have worn gloves, I guess. Oh well.”

“It’ll come clean in the end,” Faith told her gently, brushing her one clean hand through the soft gold of Buffy’s hair. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah?” A little spark of hope flickered alive in Buffy. It had been such a long time. She stood closer to Faith as she finished cleaning the wound.

“Told you before, B, it fades.” Faith let her wrap the bandage tight, tying it off with a too-practiced ease, then took her into strong arms that were warm against the antiseptic chill of the hospital air. “It all fades.”

Her own arms clung tight to the other girl, trying to get as much of that warmth inside her as she could. “Let’s go riding sometime soon,” she suggested through her sniffling. “Get on your bike, go somewhere for a week or so. Get away from it all.” Her hands stroked slow circles on her lover’s leather jacket.

“North,” Faith agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “North until we run out of road. Nothing but the ocean and the trees and the wind on our faces.”

Buffy smiled. “I’d like that. I always wanted to see Alaska.” Leaning in again, she gave Faith a tender kiss. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Soon as I can,” her second self promised, rough fingertips tucked up under Buffy’s jaw. “As soon as I can. Tell your mom and Dawn I... well, better yet, don’t tell them. But you know what I want to say.” Another brush of lips, and a careful smile. “You always know.”

Biting her lip, Buffy nodded. “As good as done.” She took one reluctant step away. “Don’t get into too much trouble.”

“I won’t.” Smiling, Faith held up a bandaged hand and wiggled her fingers in spite of the pain. “Don’t forget to cut loose in once in a while, Miss Prim and Proper. Take it from a pro, bottling is not to the good.”

A shadow moved behind the Slayer’s eyes. After a moment, she nodded.

“Wish I could stay,” Faith husked, eyes reaching out for her. It felt like a whole world between them now, even if they’d barely moved two steps. The room was too bright now, and too cold. Their breath showed in the air. “Remember when we used to get days off?”

Buffy blinked and squinted in the harsh light. “They gave you days off and didn’t tell me? The bastards,” she laughed wryly.

“Not so much with the gave. More with the took.” She could barely see Faith’s grin through the glare, but she could hear it in that laughing voice. “You oughta try that some time, B. Taking what you need, it has its points.”

“Want, take, have?” Frost bit into her voice in spite of everything.

Faith shook her head, almost lost in the too-bright lights. “Need, take, treasure,” she whispered softly. “Plus a little handle with care.”

Somebody put a hand on her shoulder.

“Buffy? You should wake up. Your mother is awake,” Anya’s voice pulled the Slayer back to the waiting room. “The two of you can tell Dawn comforting lies now.”  

The lights in the waiting room hurt her eyes, and she covered her face for a moment to shield them against the glare. Not to hide the tears in them. She couldn’t be crying, because she couldn’t be weak right now. Dawn needed her, and her mother needed her, and that was that.

_Bottling is not to the good, B._

_Shut up_ , she told the dream. Or herself. Or whatever. _Just shut up._

It did, which only made it harder not to cry.

After a little while, she stood up. Dawn was already out of the chair Buffy had left her sleeping in, hovering anxiously by the elevator that went up to the patients’ rooms, and Buffy squeezed her shoulder while they waited for the doors to open. Part of her hoped they never would - that she’d never have to go up and see her mother in that hospital bed again.

Dawn was talking.

“What?” Buffy managed, embarrassed she hadn’t been listening.

“It’s the stupid paint. Institutional blah,” her little sister rattled on, oblivious to the gap in communications. “It makes me wanna, I dunno, run away or something. I’m just glad Mom doesn’t have to be here alone, y’know? ‘Cause that would suck.” She stopped when the door opened, hesitating on the threshold of the elevator, and looked at Buffy with eyes that didn’t seem like they could possibly be fourteen years old. “I spilled jam on the shirt she gave me, too. You don’t think she’s gonna be mad, do you?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Buffy lied gently, pushing her over the line into the elevator and squeezing her shoulder. “It’ll come clean in the end.”

Maybe it wasn’t a lie - maybe it really would. She thought about Alaska and wind on her face, held on to her sister tighter, and tried to believe it.


End file.
